At a loss
I killed a spider
Not a murderous brown recluse
Not even a black widow
And if the truth were told this
Was only a small
Sort of papery spider
Who should have run
When I picked up the book
But she didn't
And she scared me
And I smashed her
I don't think
I'm allowed
To kill something
Because I am
Frightened
- "Allowables," by Nikki Giovanni
Morning, yogis.
I'm writing this note from St. Paul following another week of more police brutality and senseless violence. It is emotionally draining just to open my iPhone anymore these days, and so I cannot imagine how drained the loved ones of Philando Castile, Alton Sterling and the five Dallas police officers are, how tired African Americans across the United States must be every day. As a woman, I know how it is to feel vulnerable in my own skin from time to time. But as a white woman, I know much more closely how it is to feel protected and advantaged by it. And so really I have no idea what tired feels like. I can listen to people who do know, and I can try to understand. But I'll never know first-hand.
Last week, my (white) friends and I got pulled over driving through Ohio. We were going 89 in a 70 mph zone. We got pulled over by a cordial, professional (black) cop who handed over a citation, sending us on our way in about 10 minutes. I see the disparity: the fear of losing maybe $100 on a speeding ticket versus the fear of losing your life. I doubt my friends' hands were on 10 and 2. I see the disparity: making up for a few lost minutes on your road trip time versus comforting your 4-year-old child who just watched your fiancée get shot to death.
These fears and experiences that are opening up all around us are not new, they are cutting into hundreds of year old festering wounds. What we have now is simply the channels to expose them more quickly.
--
Monday morning, my CEO called a last-minute Town Hall style meeting for staff. We sat and my coworkers opened up about these sorts of experiences, a white parent of a white kid who got too many chances breaking the law because police "didn't want to ruin his future"; a black parent of a black kid who does everything right like he was taught and still gets called the N-word and pulled over constantly.
The definition of white privilege is being able to turn your back on a problem and say, "Well, that's not me. I'm not racist." And so on. This can be enticing for well-intentioned white people, but it's just as much a part of the problem, and I know because that's been me before.
So flip, "Some of my best friends are black" over to the more important truth: "Some of the white people I know are bigots." For me, I don't have to look very far. Some of my immediate and extended family is racist. Last week, I 'unfriended' (and reported some posts by) a relative of mine on Facebook because each day he posted hateful, racist messages and images online and I couldn't muster the energy to speak to him about it. I know simply hitting delete was cowardly and contributory to the echo chamber effect that only further polarizes and divides people in our country more. It felt like the wrong thing, the easy way out. I know that if I have any ounce of help to offer, it's to root out racism among my own blood.
The right thing will be to call him up to confront him about the lynching image on his Facebook wall that made me physically ill. I've started the conversation. I'm going to make efforts I can to continue it among my own family and it feels uncomfortable and necessary and honestly it's really not that hard. There are a lot of things that require courage; this isn't one. I've started the process. Because if the theory that eventually bigotry will die off on its own were true, we wouldn't still be having these conversations and seeing this violence nearly 50 years after the assassination of MLK, Jr. "We can't afford any more losses," said Nina Simone in 1968. We cannot afford it. And we can't afford to be at a loss for words when they are needed most.
I ask this particularly of fellow white people: can we call racists out--be them strangers or family--and lead by example at the same time? And can we do it not only when it's convenient or topical? Can we humble ourselves to hold each other accountable and can we do it not because it makes us feel good or because not doing so would make us feel bad, but because god dammit we are all fucking human beings on this planet together? Can we amplify voices from people of color and support black owned businesses? Can we speak up when non-blacks say, "why not 'all lives matter'?" (You can start by sending this.) Can we educate ourselves on what it means to be an ally? Can we stand up in our workplaces and communities for policies and trainings that make it harder for racism and unconscious bias to exist? Can we reject racist political figures who drive us apart? Can we muster the empathy to speak calming with the bigots in our lives not because their feelings are particularly relevant and maybe not because they deserve it, but because it might be more productive?
--
In the midst of meeting with my team members, someone commented on the desire to not have our backs to one another as we speak on these topics. The arrangement of the room made this difficult but within seconds, it began happening. A circle was formed. We could look one another in the eye, without our backs turned. As was pointed out, it just took one person speaking up to change the dynamic. Let's remember that the next time we want to give up on the hateful people we encounter or even love.
--
As humans, we are not allowed to kill because we are frightened.
And I am not allowed to turn my back in silence because I am ashamed.
--
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